


Weekend at Bobby's 2

by glinda4thegood



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-12
Updated: 2011-02-12
Packaged: 2017-10-15 14:51:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/161909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glinda4thegood/pseuds/glinda4thegood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>First in the Singer/Mills mystery series. How do you stop a hungry succubus in Sioux City?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Weekend at Bobby's 2

Title: **Weekend at Bobby's 2**  
Author: **Glinda**  
Rating: **NC17**  
Pairing: Bobby Singer/Jodie Mills  
Post Ep: Weekend at Bobby's  
Summary: Another MOTW, one hungry succubus in Sioux Falls

 

It had been a very bad day for Sheriff Jodie Mills. When the phone rang at 11:53 p.m. she knew it was almost over, and tomorrow would be another very bad day.

"Mills. Hello? Hank?" She hated cell phones. Someday technology would catch up with reality and these soup can on a string moments would only exist in ancient 2D movies. The caller's voice rose and fell, cutting out on some words.

"Clothes behind . . . as a jay bird . . . went for . . . clothes were . . . feed and supply . . ."

Deputy Hank's voice disappeared. Jodie slipped the phone into her pocket, rubbed her eyes with the heel of her hand and swung her legs off the bed. She sat for a moment as events from the last two days passed through her memory on fast-forward.

Bobby Singer's place was a lodestone for insanity. With Luther Vandross officially reported as an escaped prisoner, her desk could very well be missing a nameplate in the morning. It was a possible scenario she had played out in her mind a dozen ways since the end of her shift. The mayor already hated her guts. It was no secret he thought his town deserved a better, male, sheriff.

Jodie pulled on her running shoes and retrieved badge, cuffs and gun from the nightstand. She was still fully dressed in jeans and sweatshirt. Somehow, with a new bottle of tequila and a lot of thinking to do, she had never undressed for bed. Tequila -- how much had she had? The level of liquid in the bottle was reassuring. She'd had enough, but not too much. She ought to go out to the car and call dispatch, send someone else. But Hank's words had woken the weird vibe in her bones, and there was no one else she trusted enough, or hated enough, to send on _that_ kind of call.

She'd be careful, and take it easy. Kids were probably pranking again, that always made Hank crazy.

Town looked quiet as a grave. Jodie regretted the thought instantly. She activated the car radio as she cruised past the post office. "Sarah? This is Sheriff Mills. You hear from Hank?"

"Hey hon. Not a peep. This place is quiet as a grave tonight." Sarah laughed. "Although Mr. Bananas called in a few minutes ago and complained about his neighbors again. Said they were having an orgy in the back yard. And Margaret Donner checked in with her nightly complaint about Mayor Bob missing Conan."

Mr. Bonono was a regular. His neighbors, the Rands, hosted sports parties, and used their backyard hot tub with joyful, often drunken disregard for decibel limits and public decency. Mayor Bob, who rarely left Bud's Bait and Booze before midnight, was probably in overtime expounding against the evils of suffrage.

"I'll swing by the Rands after I find Hank. He called me about missing clothes. I couldn't hear the whole thing." Jodie turned at the corner of Oak and Primrose, then slid the car down the alley that would terminate near Priestly's Feed and Supply loading dock. The streetlights were out in this part of town. She'd have to yell at the maintenance department tomorrow morning. If the mayor gave her a chance.

At the end of the alley Jodie slowed, letting her headlights illuminate the back of the store and the dock. There was something up there, right enough.

 _Probably not big enough for a body, please don't let it be another body,_ she thought glumly. _And if it is a body, let it be properly dead._

When she climbed the steps cautiously and approached she could see there was no body, but the discovery did not relieve her apprehension. "Damn it, Hank." Jodie pushed at the empty uniform with one foot. It looked like everything was there, down to a pair of tighty whities that were no longer either. Three steps away another pile of clothing puddled around a pair of mens wingtip dress shoes. She knew those shoes.

Jodie backed up until her spine was solid with the store. It was a clear night, mild and windless with a high dusting of stars overhead. There was no sign of any other creature, human, animal or other, around her. Small environmental noises made a barely perceptible background soundtrack: peripatetic crickets, natural shiftings and creakings of old wooden buildings and cooling asphalt. The only jarring note in the landscape, other than the empty clothing, was a pungent smell that seemed to grow stronger the longer she stood on the dock.

 _Whoa. Must be the tequila kicking in._

Warmth pulsed up from her stomach and fanned over her chest. But her hands were still steady.

 _Where the hell was the smell coming from? Had Priestly buried a dead horse under the dock?_

Jodie took a shallow breath, feeling the odor coat her tongue in an unpleasant, tenacious way. It smelled like horse sweat and fermented hay, with a touch of polecat. Jodie travelled the length of the dock with her back against the wall. The big, solid double oak doors were immovably locked. There was nothing else on the dock, and nothing to indicate where Hank and Mayor Bob's unclothed bodies might have gotten to.

The pervasive scent thinned into something almost floral, Stargazer lilies maybe, then diluted to a memory as Jodie left the dock and returned to the cruiser. From thumbs to toes, every bit of her body prickled.

 _More weird shit, this is more weird shit._

Jodie stared at the radio. If she called it in, tomorrow the whole town would know her deputy and Mayor Bob had gone walk-about in their altogether. If she didn't call it in . . .

Panic was probably not premature, but there was always time for panic. Jodie eased the cruiser along the back of Priestly's and continued past quiet store backs, finally turning toward the closest residential neighborhood.

The windows on the Bonano house were dark, but scattered lights showed at the Rand's. Jodie took her time crossing the front lawn, listening, ready. The smell was there when she left the yard for the shelter of bushes along the house. It was even heavier and more complex then it had been on the dock, a whiff of ozone and copper spiked the salt of sweat, with an unexpected floral finish.

A wave of dizziness crashed and ebbed, leaving Jodie with one hand against the house, the other pressed to her temple. The cool touch of one of her new silver bracelets seemed to bring her back. This wasn't a reaction to alcohol. For a wild moment she wondered if their small town was harboring a terrorist cell engaged in producing some new kind of nerve gas.

She needed to concentrate, not speculate, and do her job. Jodie slipped her gun from the waistband of her jeans and inched toward the back yard. The ferocious yowl of a cat in heat, looking for a willing tom, broadcast a startling sense of need that drew a twang of response from Jodie's own stomach. Poor, pathetic girl. It sounded as if she was strutting her stuff close by. Possibly this was the reason for Mr. Bonano's claim of an orgy.

Still, no reason not to expect the worst. Recent events had taught her a few new survival skills, and Bobby Singer had taught her a few more. Holding her gun ready, Jodie dug into her pocket and found a handful of salt. Moving a millimeter at a time, keeping her body shielded against the house, she got her first look into the Rand's back yard.

 

"Bobby! Bobby! Bobby Singer!"

Bobby's head snapped forward as he came fully awake. He'd been dreaming about marching band, about beating time against a big bass drum while he watched a lithesome majorette drop her baton and bend over.

"Bobby!"

The drumming came from his front door. As he struggled out of his chair the plate containing melted remnants of ice cream and cobbler went flying to shatter at his feet.

"Balls. Big. Blue. Balls." There was no mistaking the voice that had woken him. Bobby checked the clock. Half past midnight, never a good time for the Sheriff to come calling.

"Jodie. What the --" Bobby rocked back several steps as Jodie Mills threw herself into his arms and cowered against his chest. She was holding her gun. Bobby could feel it resting hard against his kneecap.

"What the hell, with a side order of what the fuck." He firmly, but gently, disengaged her from his chest, sliding one hand down to close over the gun. "Jodie. When you shoot me I'd rather you'd did it on purpose."

She looked like she'd been on a wild horse ride. Her dark hair was all over the place, and she smelled horsy and a little sweaty. Bobby took a deep breath. "You been drinking?" She shuddered and touched a wrist to one temple. Bobby caught the flash of silver. She was wearing the rune bracelets he'd given her after the zombie incursion. Good girl.

"Shit yes." She shook her head as if to focus. "Tequila. But that isn't my problem. Let go my gun." Jodie tucked the gun away. She pulled herself straight, running a hand through her hair to restore some order. "I need your help again. The town needs your help. Something ate Hank, and Mayor Bob, and is currently sucking the life out of Joe and Sheila Rand." She shuddered. "If it wasn't for your bracelets, I'm pretty sure it would have eaten me."

Bobby led her to an armchair. "Get yourself together. I'm going to take a leak."

He took a piss, thinking he'd found worse things waiting on his doorstep than an armful of Jodie Mills. The scent she'd brought in with her lingered on his hands. Bobby took a quick sniff. It seemed different now, almost like old lady toilette water. On his way back he took a side trip to the kitchen and poured two glasses of ice tea, dousing both with sugar.

"Here," he gave her the tea. "Let's hear it."

Jodie drained half her glass. "I found two piles of clothing on Priestly's loading dock. They belong to Hank and Mayor Bob. When I didn't find remains, I went cruising to the Rand house. Bonano had called Sarah, complaining about a loud party. I approached the back yard with caution." She broke off and finished the tea. "I was just in time to see Joe, Sheila, and something that looked like a woman having an orgy near the hot tub. I say orgy," Jody said carefully, "but upon reflection I believe what got me the hell out of there was the conviction that it was more like an all-you-can-eat buffet moment, the Rands were her third and fourth plateful, and I didn't want to be dessert."

Bobby let her words settle into his database of possibilities. "This woman. What did she look like?"

Jodie's knuckles went white. "Fucking gorgeous. My height. Skin like milk chocolate, Godiva milk chocolate, no aureoles and her nipples looked like Hersey kisses, like they'd taste like chocolate if you rolled them on your tongue . . . and Bobby, I thought I was going to die if I didn't make the effort to get over there and try to roll them on my tongue . . ."

"Jodie? You okay?"

It took her a minute. Both bracelets went to her temples. "I think the silver saved me, cleared my head enough to back away and run for it."

There were a limited number of obvious possibilities. Bobby walked stiffly over to his desk and pulled out a bottle. He poured himself a double shot and tried to shift his partial erection to a more comfortable position without looking like an ass. Jodie Mills was a grieving mother and recent widow. As far as Bobby knew, and sketchy memories went back to her high school days, Jodie had never seemed the least bit interested in girl on girl.

"What else did you see?" He needed all the information he could get before he hit the books.

"They were all having sex. Both Rands were caterwauling with pleasure, and somehow . . ." Jodie trailed off. "I got the impression they were both sort of deflating, like tired blow-up dolls. What is she, Bobby? I'm not into women, like that."

"Demon. I'm thinking succubus," Bobby sighed. "Let's look at the books." It didn't take him long to find an extensive section in the New Revised Enochian Grimoire devoted to succubi and incubi, with cramped notations in John Winchester's distinctive hand. "What color was her hair?"

"Ninety percent cocoa butter," Jodie said dreamily. "Long enough to twine around her chocolatey thighs."

"Earth to Jodie." Bobby cleared his throat. "Anything else?"

"She was singing, when her mouth wasn't full. No words, just sounds."

Bobby read for several minutes. "Dammit. This is bad."

"How bad?" She came back from her Willy Wonka moment looking flushed and unhappy. "And why bad, apart from the obvious eating of citizens."

"I don't think this thing is a minor succubus. They don't seem to snack on this scale. Your description matches Naamah, one of the original demon prostitute queens. Mythology says she was one of fallen archangel Samael's lovers." Bobby's finger followed the lines of text. _"Handmaid to her fallen blind lord, that ancient dragon to whom only Lucifer sits as equal, Naamah kindles the fire of desire no mortal may escape unburned."_ Bobby paused and shook his head. "Great. Super fuck demon."

"What does it mean, about the fallen archangel? I thought Lucifer was the only fallen angel."

"Different religions, different mythologies say different things." Bobby eyed her closely. From the expression on her face she was giving the conversation serious, concentrated thought. "I don't think it was in someone's best interest to let any really accurate accounting of the whole fall from heaven story survive intact. I do know a universal truth about angels you won't find in the texts -- they're all dicks."

"But she's not an angel. And we can kill her?" Jodie's voice quavered, just a little. "I'd like to kill her, Bobby."

"Yeah, yeah. I get that." He read further, then switched books. "John left some notes. _Under no circumstances let it touch you. Its scent is a pheromonal trap with paralytic properties that can be transferred by touch, which sends it direct into the bloodstream, then to the brain. You won't be doing much thinking after that. Banishment is not an antidote. Personal experience indicates continued potency at approximately one to two hours after exposure."_

Startled, Bobby lifted his fingers to his nose. He saw understanding in Jodie's eyes. "That's what the smell is."

"It's still on me, a little. Is that the reason I wanted to --"

"No doubt." Did it explain his own reaction to Jodie, Bobby wondered, just that trace of pheromone? It wasn't like he hadn't thought about her before. Cute, feisty little thing in a uniform. Recent young widow in a uniform . . .

"Bobby? Tell me how we kill her." Jodie prompted, her jaw set tight.

Bobby pushed inappropriate fantasy material to the back of his mental collection. "John Winchester says good luck with that, it's more of a "return to sender" deal. He says there are a few things to try. _By its name may you bind it. With silver may you restrain it. Command, hoc fugere, and say the words of the greater banishing; so may you return it to the pits of Hell."_ Bobby scratched his head. "I know the greater banishing words. If it is Naamah, we got her name. It it's not Naamah, we will be totally screwed, and that's the literal truth."

Jodie contemplated the instructions. "You left out restraining with silver. That means getting close to her. You can do that part."

"Balls." Bobby found a bit of scrap paper and wrote two lines. He extracted a pair of handcuffs from the bottom drawer, then pushed away from the desk. "Silver cuffs, engraved with Enochian binding runes. You take this," he offered Jodie the paper. "Greater words of banishing for dummies -- all phonetic. Just in case."

 

When they got to the Rand house the back yard was empty except for the hot tub and two bathrobes. Bobby stared at the robes. "She cleans her plate," he said absently. The scent permeated the air around them like morning dew, leaving a dampness on exposed skin. "I guess all we can do is get in the car and cruise around."

"Maybe she's moved on." Jodie's words were hopeful, although her tone was skeptical.

"My luck doesn't roll that way," Bobby muttered. "This ain't natural. Something bigger is going on. Lamia, Okami, now a major queen succubus. Skews the statistical averages right into the crapper."

"Want to explain that?" Jody kept beside him at they returned to the car. "How can I do my job if I don't have a clue about what's walking the darkside around here?"

"This ain't the time. Even the Cliff Notes would take a while," Bobby said. "We'll talk, later."

They drove slowly down the street. "I'm not even sure where we should start looking," Jodie said. "I'll call Sarah and ask if she's had any more . . ."

A streak of white flashed in front of the car. As Jodie jammed on the brakes to avoid the small dog, Bobby saw a leash trailing behind.

"Pull over." He was out of the car before Jodie had it in park. Bobby backtracked the dog's trajectory. They were in a dark neighborhood framed by old trees and trimmed bushes. He could smell musk, and, on the edge of perception, hear whimpers and cries of pleasure.

"Ahead." Jodie stepped up beside him. Her hand went automatically to her gun.

"That won't help." Bobby breathed the words into her ear. "Tomorrow I get you some silver for that thing."

"You're a good man, Bobby Singer."

The rush of heat that crested, tsunami-like, over him left good man Bobby Singer momentarily beached like a whale. "De nada," he finally managed. "Over there, to the left."

Jodie's observation about the deflating blowup doll was a good one. The plump dog-walker, back against a tree, gasping in ecstasy as a queen of hell bent to work his nether regions, seemed to plaster against the bark and draw in on himself as they watched, transfixed.

Time seemed to slow and stretch on limber, furry cat paws. Godiva chocolate would be sawdust compared to this woman. Strong, supple legs flexed the muscles along her thighs. Bobby swallowed a mouthful of saliva, picturing the ultimate hot fudge sundae.

 _Succubus,_ his mental guardian reminded, _not confection_ or _woman. Demon. Evil._

It was hard to see in the woodcut world of black and white, under the trees, away from the lights. But where there should have been black and white there were rich, dreaming browns. Chocolate lips against shrinking pasty genitals. Chocolate nipple begging to be tasted. Chocolate fingernails splayed against dead white flesh.

"Bobby." Jodie pulled at his arm. "She's going to finish."

"That makes two of us," Bobby muttered. He stepped forward, hand closing around the silver cuffs in his jeans pocket. "Naamah!"

She pulled her mouth free, straightened and spun to face them. The dogwalker slid to the ground in a boneless sprawl. Bobby found himself staring into eyes that looked like carved mother-of-pearl. Chocolate lips parted, and music entered the world.

He had never seen, nor heard, anything as beautiful. Was this where the siren myth had come from, Bobby wondered with vague interest. This was a woman a man would cross time and worlds to bury himself inside. And she wanted him, wanted him, reached for him . . .

"Naamah," he said again, thickly. She froze. Her song turned into a shrill protest.

"Bobby! Now!" Jodie pushed him toward the succubus.

Functioning on instinct alone, Bobby's hand slapped against the demon's wrist. The cuff snicked closed. His fingers touched her flesh.

He was instantly hard. Everywhere. Bobby heard noises coming from his own throat. More by happenstance than intention he stumbled backward, barely aware that his backside had encountered the ground. The succubus held her arm away from her body, letting the free cuff dangle. She was silent, furiously focused on runes that blazed against the silver like liquid mercury. From the other side of the moon he heard a voice intone the greater words of banishment. Jodie Mills faced the glorious creature with a scrap of paper and shaking hands.

"Naamah! Hock foojeray . . ."

Brilliant light followed the words of banishment. Bobby wondered if his eyeballs had been burned from his head, wondered if this was what it was like to be struck by lightning. Gradually the woodcut world began to refocus. First came the blurred sight of Jodie Mills assisting a trembling pudding of a man toward a nearby house. Bobby sat up straighter, and felt a hubcap try to reconfigure his spine. He took inventory. Still alive, back against the cruiser, heart racing, no sign of the succubus. Painful erection the size of the Sears building snugged against a cruel jean seam.

But, still alive.

"I told him to call animal control for the dog."

Jodie had been saying something more as she walked toward him, but it was lost in the roar between his ears. Her dark hair fanned wildly about her shoulders. Even wearing the obscuring sweatshirt Bobby could see the swell of her breasts. She bent to place a hand on his cheek.

"You okay? That banishment seemed to do the job."

"Jodie. Get away from me." Bobby growled the words between clenched teeth. "Quick."

She moved away, fingers brushing her gun. The conviction he'd felt about issuing the warning had gotten through to her.

"Having a moment here. I touched her skin." His own skin felt like a party balloon being filled and twisted into some entertaining shape. "In a minute I'm going to get in the car. Take me home."

He leaned into the door as she drove, face pressed against the window. Only an hour or two, John had written. If his skin didn't rupture from the pressure and relocate his insides to the outside, he would be okay. If his dick didn't explode, he would be okay.

 

"Nearly there. We're nearly there. Stay with me, Bobby. You're nearly home." Jodie tried to focus on driving and talking.

She knew Bobby had tried to go to the thing, had wanted to go with a need Jodie understood only too well. Hell, she had almost joined them. Naamah's promise still throbbed low between her legs. The three of them, wrapped around each other, skin and legs and mouths and hands . . . If Bobby hadn't tripped, if she hadn't seen the thing's eyes . . . Was dying in bliss such a bad thing, after all? Was living in emptiness and pain something she should be working so hard to hang onto?

The jury was in. She had chosen to live. Jodie took her eyes off the road for a moment. Bobby still huddled against the door, drawn in on himself. She fought the urge to pull over and take him into her lap, to stroke the sheen of sweat from his forehead and whisper against his eyelashes _all will be well, all will be well._ But something strong and stern inside her said to keep driving.

So she talked to him nonstop in a quiet, soothing voice. She said things about losing her boy, losing her husband. How her son's death had changed her relationship first with friends, then with her husband. How her husband's death had finished that particular chain-reaction of changes. She told him about selling the house after Zombiefest '09, and about the new apartment where there were no memories. Jody didn't ask him how he could stay in his own home, how he could sleep in a museum of memory and history. She had seen it in him, the depth of loss and bitter regret over the death of his wife.

Jodie talked about what the loss of Hank and the Mayor would mean, and Bobby finally unhunched himself and lifted his face away from the window glass.

"I was trying to find a way to get Hank interested in learning some of your survival stuff. How do I write this shit up, Bobby? Piles of clothes, no bodies?"

"Put the clothes in a trash bag and drop them at my place." The deep bass of his voice was ragged and thin. He cleared his throat. "Then you'll have four missing persons without the weirdness."

The car's headlights skewed down the curve of his drive, flickered over the solid ranks of automobile skeletons. "See. We made it back in one piece again." She tried for crisp, authoritative reassurance. She could feel her professional mask slip when she glanced at him.

"You did great back there, Jodie. Kept your head. Saved our asses."

She put the cruiser in park and turned off the engine. "It wouldn't have been the worst way to go. I never realized, never thought --" She shook her head. "The town owes you a lot, Bobby."

"I'll remind you of that next time I land in your jail."

Stubborn as a mule, he waved away her offer of help and nearly fell when he tried to step out of the car. He pulled himself up against the door frame and stood for a moment, swearing under his breath, then stumbled off toward the house. The attempt ended in an undignified sprawl as an invisible obstacle, probably a pebble, interrupted his progress.

"Let me help." Jodie got a grip under his arms.

"Told you not to touch me." It was a weak protest. "Don't want to --"

"Lose control? Bobby, you couldn't molest a newborn kitten in this condition." She wedged one shoulder under his armpit and wrapped her other arm tightly around his ribs. "Keep walking, you're too big for me to drag inside. Macho monster hunting pain in my ass."

They made it inside before his legs gave out again. "Just leave me here." Bobby managed to roll onto his back. "I should be back to normal in an hour."

"I'll wait." Jodie shut the door and slid the bolts home. "But I'm staying near the door, with you. There are things about your place that give me the creeping grue."

He snorted a laugh, sounding nearly normal. "Nothing slow about you, Officer Mills."

"You don't know me at all, Bobby. I can be real slow." She knelt next to him and removed his hat. "How's the partial paralysis?"

The effect of her touch was galvanizing. Bobby sucked in a breath and shuddered against her fingertips. "Still partial. This ain't you, Jodie. It's the succubus, the pheromones. Head on out, now."

"Maybe. I got exposed before you, even if I didn't touch her skin. I know what pieces of me woke up and started to whimper." Jodie lay her palm against his cheek. "I get scared all the time, deeply, horribly scared, and I still have to suck it up and do my job. Tonight I got deeply, wrenchingly horny, and still had to get past it and do my job. I think you know something about how this works."

"I could make a hunter out of you, girl," Bobby said. "It takes a while to see how strong you are, strong where it counts."

Jodie felt a shocking thrill of anticipation light up her nerve endings. She took a deep, steadying breath. "If I understand what that is, no thanks. What I do is worthwhile. And it appears there will be some overlap in the future, anyway." Her fingers traveled through his beard, outlined his mouth. "Every time I see this mustache I wonder what it would be like to kiss you."

"Good God --"

His mouth was pliable, firm and responsive. Past half-imagined fantasies were replaced by the reality of his soft, coarse mustache and beard against her lips and face. When she finally deepened the kiss and touched her tongue to his, she felt her body vibrate with a familiar, long denied, demand.

Jodie eased away from the kiss. Past was past. She was still alive, and life had its needs.

Bobby made a frustrated sound, part growl, part plea. "I'm old enough to be your father. You don't want to do this, Jodie."

"That dog won't hunt, Hef." Jodie touched his cheek and lay her hand over the fly of his jeans. "You've either got a world record size boner, or you're trying to hide an Indian burial mound in your jeans. This might be a weirdly unexpected opportunity, but I'm happy to take advantage of it. Why do you think Marcy Ward brought you cobbler, invited you over to service her chipper?"

"She's a little -- more mature than you."

Jodie slapped his cheek lightly. A sense of humor and unsought happiness rose through her. "I know you'd never say that to her face."

"Looks like I'll never get the chance, after the bloodbath." His eyes were dark in the hallway's dim light. "Let it go for now. Maybe after tonight, when we're both normal . . ."

"I don't think either of us will see _normal_ again, Bobby." Jodie stripped off her sweatshirt, absurdly glad she was wearing an old lacy black bra that had, over the course of many washings, become slightly too small to adequately contain her breasts. "I understand. Fear that loss of control will result in terrible consequences is part of my life, everyday. I'm not taking off my clothes because of the succubus. I want to get you naked and wrap my legs around you because _I want you._ Any more objections?"

"Balls. I can still barely bend my knees." His hand closed over her forearm and brought it away from his crotch. He touched her fingers to his lips. "Next time I see you, I want to be able to look in your eyes with a little of my dignity intact."

"Sex is not about dignity." Jodie went to work on his boot laces. "Sex is wet and sloppy and bumpy." She tossed his socks after his boots. "Good sex is rarely perfect bodies moving in perfect unison achieving sublime climax." Jodie loosened his belt and carefully unzipped his jeans. "No underwear? Bobby Singer . . . lift your ass a little." She laughed as, with gentle care, she slipped his jeans down and off. When she looked up from her task, she stopped moving for a long moment. "Holy crap, Bobby. That has to hurt."

"You have no idea."

She straddled him, still wearing the bra, part of her wishing there had been time and opportunity to remove the rest of his clothing and settle on a softer, more hospitable surface. But as she took him into her body and his hands came up to cup her breasts, all wishing evaporated and turned to doing. She was wet and full. Rocking against him nearly brought her to an immediate orgasm.

Bobby groaned. He grabbed her hips and moved against her desperately when she stopped rocking. "Are you trying to kill me?"

She rolled her pelvis in a smooth, circular motion that brought an indistinct sound from his throat. Jodie tightened her stomach muscles and tried to keep the building pressure between her legs from releasing. "No. Just want to last long enough to make this memorable."

"You're shitting me." Bobby's chest heaved with semi-hysterical laughter. "That should be my line."

Jodie bent her head and trailed her tongue over his bottom lip. "You have the sexiest mustache I have ever seen in my life, Bobby Singer. This is going to happen between us again, and I want the rest of my body to get better acquainted with your mustache."

She felt the spasm and surge from his body, heard the long, bass shout of pleasure, and let her own controlled denial of the need in her belly explode. Quivering with the aftermath, she still straddled his hips, resting her palms against his chest.

"Jodie." His hands moved from her hips toward her face. "You okay?"

"Very fucking okay." Jodie let him slide out of her body. Laying next to him on the hardwood floor she idly wondered exactly how purple her knees would be in the morning. "You okay?"

"Let's see. I'm parked half naked in front of my door. Sheriff Mills is laying next to me wearing only her bra -- she's got nice tits, by the way -- and there's a sticky patch the size of South Dakota on my stomach." He brushed his lips against her forehead. "I'm very fucking okay."

Minutes drifted by, warmth building between their bodies. "I think my knees will bend now. Want to get off this hardwood?"

"Already did." Jodie felt the laugh shake his body again. She could get used to that feeling. "Seriously, I need to get home and prepare for tomorrow. I don't know if I'll still have a job, although frankly that seems like less of an issue with Mayor Bob missing. With four citizens disappeared, along with the jail break, I'll be doing paperwork for the next month."

"Don't make it a month. We need to talk. Now more than --"

She stopped his words with a kiss. "I'll call first. I'm pretty sure you get up to things out here I'm not prepared to know about, yet."

The cruiser dashboard clock read 3:45 a.m. when she left the salvage yard behind. Today would be another bad day, but she could get through it. Jodie felt residual heat between her legs. People might be surprised if it got around there was some kind of relationship between them. But they weren't the most unlikely couple in town. Her job was to protect and serve. His was salvage and repair. They dove-tailed, Jodie thought, laughing aloud.

She wouldn't wait a month, or even a week before she called.

~ ~ ~

Continues with Box of Delights


End file.
